


Talk Tonight

by Icanseenow



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nonverbal Communication, POV Sam Winchester, Season/Series 05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 09:41:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21891952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Icanseenow/pseuds/Icanseenow
Summary: After a long and gruesome hunt, Dean is hurt and Sam is trying to help.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 9
Kudos: 50





	Talk Tonight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mooseintheocean](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mooseintheocean/gifts).

"Are you okay?"

Dean barely looks up, but he nods. "Of course I'm okay," he says, but his voice and the way his elbow is awkwardly sticking out betray his words. Sam knew that’s what Dean was going to say, anyway. They don't ask these questions expecting any other kind of reply. Their back and forth of "Are you okay?" - "I'm fine" is an often-employed tool that can mean many things, depending on the situation.

_"Are you hurt?" - "Yes."_

_"Are you going to make it?_"_ \- "Probably."_

_"I'm here for you" - "I know you are."_

_"Are you angry with me?" - "No."/"Yes"/"Yes, but it'll be fine."_

_"I need to hear your voice." - "Here it is."_

Right now, Sam’s question is of the last kind. But he is also genuinely worried about Dean's injury. Dean is clutching his arm too fiercely for it to be nothing. He’d headed straight for the bottle the second they’d entered the motel room.

"It got you pretty good." You can’t go wrong with stating the obvious; another trick from the Winchester communication tool box.

"Well, I got it pretty good too," Dean says. "And unlike that thing, I’m not dead."

Not dead, just shaken.

"Don’t look at me like that," Dean sounds coy. "I swear, I’m fine!"

For the longest time Sam used to ask himself why Dean did this. Saying he was fine when he wasn’t. As if Sam couldn’t see right through it. He’d chalked it up to arrogance. The inability to admit defeat. And maybe that's part of the truth. But Sam has learnt that Dean knows full well that he's not fooling Sam with his claims. It's not just pride. It's also self preservation. Dean clings to his role as the strong, invincible bigger brother with all his might. It's carved too deep into his sense of self. He's built his identity around taking care of Sam, of shielding him from things - although granted, Dean has a pretty skewed perspective of what things Sam needs to be shielded from.

Sam doesn't want to be shielded from anything. Not from the truth. And never from Dean. When Dean lets his guard down, when there's cracks in his demeanor, Sam relishes it and tries his best to carefully pry open Dean’s shell. To get close again. Most of all, Sam wants to help. Not just help by proxy as he’s been doing, not just by letting Dean take care of him. Sam wants to do the heavy lifting for once.

"Let me take care of you," he says, and steps closer to the bed. Dean watches curiously as the cheap mattress dips under the added weight. The skepticism in Dean's eyes is replaced by agony when Sam touches his shoulder.

"Holy mother of -" Dean hisses and inches away. "I said I'm okay!"

"Well, you're obviously not."

"Nothing more whiskey won't fix."

"Let me get a look at it," Sam says, and when Dean just keeps staring at him with an odd expression in his eyes, he adds, "We need to get you out of that jacket for one thing." Sam reaches for the brown leather collar, but Dean jerks backwards again.

"I can do it myself!" Dean claims, and in a softer voice: "Just hand me the alcohol." Sam reaches for the bottle on the bedside table. Dean holds it with one hand, unscrews it with his teeth and spits the lid out onto the mucky motel carpet. He takes a deep gulp.

Sam is careful, still Dean winces with every move. When the jacket is eventually off him and lies between the both of them on the bed, Dean is panting.

Sam gets out a knife, and this time when he touches Dean he doesn't retreat. Maybe he’s simply too tired to fight. Fine with Sam. He cuts through his brother’s shirt, and shoves it off, until the loose pieces of cloth flap around Dean’s bare shoulder. The skin is blemish free. There’s no blood, no visible bruise. Just familiar skin over muscle over bone.

"I don’t think anything’s broken," Sam says, tracing Dean’s shoulder down to his elbow. Dean bites his lip and nods. "I told you I’m fine." He growls when Sam moves the arm, tests its flexibility.

"You really don’t need to do this. It’s probably just sprained."

"Probably." Sam unbuttons what is left Dean’s shirt. He want so use it as a makeshift sling. It feels silly opening the shirt this way, but ripping it off by hand or using the knife would be worse. "Maybe you should see a doctor tomorrow," Sam says to break the silence.

"No need," Dean says. "It’s not that bad. Besides, Castiel is bound to show up any day now. He can just mojo me back."

"Right." Sam tries to shove down the ridiculous pang of jealousy.

His brother will take an angel’s help over his any day. It’s difficult not to feel rejected.

How can he make Dean know that he’s dependable too. That he can take it. That they are equals. That Dean can trust him. That he doesn’t need anyone else for help.

How can he make Dean know that he's not leaving again. He's staying, no take backs this time.

"You're stuck with me," Sam says, both his hands on Dean's naked shoulder, adjusting the sling.

"What?" Dean’s eyebrows shoot up. He’s heard him loud and clear, but Sam says, "Nothing," tightens the knot and lets his arms fall to his side. "Is it okay like this? I'm going to get your painkillers now."

He gets up, but Dean grabs him with his good arm. "What do you mean, I'm stuck with you?"

"I didn't mean anything by it", Sam says, feeling silly. "I'm just tired.“

Dean doesn't let go. If Sam wanted to free himself, he could. He's got two working arms and no alcohol in his system. He can overpower Dean on any good day, now it wouldn’t even be a contest. But he doesn’t, almost never does nowadays. He doesn't hit back, when Dean hits. And unless, he wants a fight, he doesn't talk back either. They’re still negotiating their places, like they have been for years, in an endless shuffle.

"What do you mean," Dean repeats. "That I'm stuck with you?"

Slowly his fingers uncurve and untangle from Sam's shirt.

"It means," Sam says slowly. "That I'm not going anywhere. You're stuck with me. You can trust me, I'm not planning to leave again."

"I don't know where this is coming from." When Sam looks down at him, he sees the surprise in his brother's eyes.

"You don't have to do that thing you’re always doing. Put on an act around me. You don't need to keep a safe distance from, in case -" Sam stops, then he repeats, "I'm not leaving again, Dean."

Dean's eyes get big in recognition. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Sam could try and start to unpack it all. The perceived betrayals. Dean's reluctance both to either let him go, or grant him full access again. Their inability to return to how things used to be. Sam has said countless sorries, and Dean has heard them all. Has accepted most of them. But there's a part of him that just doesn't believe what he’s really saying, no matter how many times Sam repeats his apologies.

Sam is all out of words.

He drops to his knees, between Dean's legs. "I'm not gonna go again," he says. "I won’t leave you again."

Dean is frozen, in apprehension or doubt. His eyes go back and forth between Sam's forearms pressing into the top of his thighs and Sam's face.

"I’m not leaving, so stop trying to keep me at an arm's length." Sam leans in closer. "Stop pushing me away, when I want to help you."

"What are you doing?" Dean asks, in a hitched voice. The same performatory questions over and over again.

This hasn't happened in long time, but Sam knows now this is his best shot. Dean’s always been a physical person, much more at ease with his body than his words.

This hasn’t happened in a long time, but if it’s ever going to start again, it’s now.

They never spoke about this. Not when it used to happen - drunk mostly, or on an adrenaline rush from a near-death experience. Not when it stopped. And never since.

He takes his time with the buttons on Dean's jeans, long enough to give him ample opportunity to shove him off if that is what he decides to do. Of course, Sam would accept it. This is, after all, an offering, not a demand.

But Dean doesn't shove him off. He just continues staring.

The sound of the zipper seems loud to Sam. It's the only thing he hears besides his own throbbing heartbeat. Dean is quiet. He is holding his breath. But he’s not frozen anymore. He lifts himself off the bed, wriggles a little, when Sam pulls down both his jeans and his boxer shorts.

"Don't-" Dean says, sharply and suddenly, stopping Sam in his tracks. "Not if you-" Dean continues. "You don't have to -"

Sam relaxes a little, a soft smile spreads over his smile. Dean isn’t saying no. He’s letting him in.

"I want to," Sam assures him.

When he touches Dean he's saying many things. _The pain will pass. I will still be here. Nothing can change what we have._ Dean would smack him, if he said any of this out loud, of course. But he lets Sam touch his half-hardened cock, lets him run a thumb over its length and just watches wordlessly when Sam takes him into his mouth.

_I got you, _Sam is saying with his tongue, and the hollow of his cheeks, his hands and the back of his throat.

And Dean, for once, is accepting everything Sam wants to give. Dean might feign ignorance, but they know they’re both fluent in this language.


End file.
